I put a spell on you (because you're mine)
by ibuzoo
Summary: She's twenty-one years old. There's a body at her feet and a puddle of blood touches the soles of her white Chucks, flows around them like a thick, pasty cream while the knife in her hand gets heaver with each passing second. Far away the Big Ben clock chimes midnight.


**I put a spell on you (because you're mine)**

**Prompt:** Corpse

**Rating:** M

**Warnings:** Modern Au / College Au / murder / mention of rape /stalking

**Word count: **1123

**A/N:** Anyone who reacts very sensible to mentions of rape should stay away from this one-shot. This story is heavy Hermione-centric while Tom kinda lurks in the background. On another note: just five more prompts left!

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><p><strong>o.<strong>

She's twenty-one years old.

There's a body at her feet and a puddle of blood touches the soles of her white Chucks, flows around them like a thick, pasty cream while the knife in her hand gets heavier with each passing second.

Far away the Big Ben clock chimes midnight.

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><p><strong>i.<strong>

She's four years old and little Ron loves to pull on her bushy brown pigtails until the pain raises tears that glisten in her caramel eyes. Fine-grained sand catches between her fingers and soils her sky-blue jeans dress while she tries to push the ginger boy away, hands and feet kicking for anything she can make contact with.

She can hear the laughter of Ron's older twin brothers as soon as one of her thick woollen tights rips open at her knee and it rings in her ears, sharp and penetrating like the cackle of hyenas. Ron stammers an apology and she feels the pain in her childs fists while her fingernails leave crescent marks on her palms from her squeezing.

Ron's apology means nothing to her.

_(he's six years old when he observes the way she swallows her anger, waits, until he's all alone at the far end of the playground, no friends, no family around)_

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><p><strong>ii.<strong>

She's eight years old and four silver pence coins weigh heavy in her sweaty palm while she waits for the Iceman at the corner of her street. The sun shines bright on the sky, unyielding and warm and little drops of sweat catch in her nape while she licks the taste of salty citrus lemonade of her glossy pink lips.

Ron pushes her aside as soon as the white ice cream van comes in view and she needs to catch her balance so she doesn't fall on hard concrete. Dark chocolate cream smears around the ginger's mouth a minute later and when he talks, half of his ice and saliva lands on Hermione's face.

Four silver pence coins press hard in the flesh of her palms, knuckles white and teeth clenched when she rushes past him, bumps his shoulder hard so his ice lands in the gutter.

She doesn't turn around when he cries after her.

_(he's ten years old, buys his ice with a ten pound bill, licks vanilla and smurf ice from his cornet and observes the girl when she leaves, his eyes fixed on her red raging face)_

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><p><strong>iii.<strong>

She's twelve years old and her white tutu glitters in different kinds of colours as soon as the spotlight hits it, freckles of periwinkle and rose that match the silver glitter on her cheeks. Her lips are pink and glossy with a tad of lipstick and her wild mane is tamed into a neat plait; it pinches and tweaks but she doesn't care, practices her plies' and tendu and frappe's with closed eyes, teeth dragging over the layer of skin on her lips in concentration.

Piercing eyes follow her every movement, make her nervous and when she trips Ron's hollow guffaw echoes from the walls; it raises little strands in her nape and suddenly her cheeks start to burn, bright amaranth and raspberry.

She swirls around, demi-pointe, and her hand leaves a clashing sound on his freckled cheek.

_(he's thirteen years old, wears a tailcoat and keeps Debussy's sheet music in his hand while his eyes are fixed on her fiery behaviour, her wild and untamed face that reminds him of a lioness right before the kill)_

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><p><strong>iv.<strong>

She's sixteen years old and Ron Weasley sits across from her in the canteen and when he talks, he moves his arms and hands wild enough that his white printed tee rucks up and shows golden tanned skin.

Her plate is full of salad and veggies while the boys scoff burgers and lasagna and even if it still disgusts her to watch half of his meal hanging as crumbs and sauce on the corners of his mouth and lips, she can't deny that she sometimes wonders how a man's body would feel under her fingers.

She's not the typical kind of girl and prefers comfortable clothes instead of party dresses but when Ron starts to compare her non-existent beauty to Lavender Brown's perfect photoshopped complexion with cherry red lipgloss and cornflower blue eyeshadow, the fork in her hand splits.

_(he's seventeen years old and his chestnut leather jacket sways with every step he takes, flatters his slender hips and he watches her knuckles turn white around her fork until it breaks while he turns the pages in his book with a dark gleam in his eyes)_

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><p><strong>v.<strong>

She's twenty-one years old and there's a hand under her floating mint skirt, muscled and bulky while thick, rough fingers run unfocused over her knickers, push the thin cotton fabric between her lips.

Her hands are pressing frantically against broad shoulders and warm breathe graces her face that reeks of alcohol and sweat and there's bile in the back of her mouth that mingles with the bitter taste of panic that raises in her throat and she tries to scream, rips her mouth wide open but a second hand finds its way to her neck, presses until water gathers in the corners of her caramel eyes.

Ron's chunky body presses closer and closer until she can't move anymore, her back hard against the wall with no possibility to escape while her mind screams that this is wrong, yells that she don't want this, no no no.

He pushes a brawny leg between her thighs and a second later his fingers tear her knickers down, the ripping sound a cutting memory that burns in the back of her mind.

She closes her eyes while silent tears fall down her cheeks.

_(he's twenty-three years old and the knife feels seething hot in his palm, the blade refracting the yellowish colour of the street lights when he approaches, mute, silent)_

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><p><strong>vi.<strong>

She's twenty-one years old and there's a body at her feet and a puddle of blood touches the soles of her white Chucks, flows around them like a thick, pasty cream while the knife in her hand gets heavier with each passing second.

Ron's blood sticks between the hollows of her fingers, runs down to her wrists and she bends down to push the blade between his ribs again and again and again. A hand on her shoulder pulls her back and she feels the knife slipping out of her fingers and warm lips grace her front, leave feathery kisses on her pale skin.

She's twenty-one years old when she looks up to see her own reflection in bright steel grey eyes, hunted, blood-smeared, anxious, alive.

Far away the Big Ben clock chimes midnight.


End file.
